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Volume 2—Number 34 FALLS VILLAGE, CONN*, SATURDAY AUGUST 21, 1858. One Dollar Per Yearj Ih Advance,
THE WIPE’S EXPERIMENT.
BY ADA N E I L .
CONCLUDED.
*‘0h, this hemstitcking is getting tire-
6 ome! 1 would not make mamius a present
that has cost me any unpleasant hour. I’ll
lay it aside for a time. I’ll draw a little
while. No, I’ll look at those songs.
Yes; at this one.” And, seating herself
at the piano, she opened Mendelssohn’s
beautiful little song “Far Away.
“ 0 far away I ’ll fly ia dreaming,
Where tliou art now ;
Where everlasting snows are gleaming,
And foaming brooks go lakcward streaming,
Where thou ar t now.
Afid still my soul pursues its dreaming
Till thou return.
Time shall not move me to complaining
Our hearts unaltered aye remaining.
Till thou return.”
Charmed by the influenced of the words
and th# music, Mrs. Stanley leaned her el­bow
UDon the music desk and fell to think­ing.
She was aroused by a ^uch upon
her shoulder and a kiss upon her forehead.
‘‘Oh, William! is that you? How'
YOU fiightened me ! I did not expect you I
so soon.” I
“Ali! then it was not me whose return i
you were waiting? lley, my dear2” i
Mrs. Stanley blushed, birt* her hippy i
face told the truth — ‘ whose return should
ehe be waiting for?” i
••Yes, yes; but I have not been among
‘everlasting snows’ and-foainiiii brooks.’
•‘^Well, ue'l. h^ve it as yfu please ; only
I am so glad that your are haie. Hut hovv
did you f>tt in without iny knowing it ? ’ ;
‘•Oh, 'out of sight, out of mind,’ you
know.”
-‘Cruel m^n, you know nothing about
it. Look aroui.d the room and see how
hnrd 1 have tried to keep busy and not to
grow l.inesome.
‘•Drawing, embroidery, sewincr. reading. ;
music! D j you know that I i’ancied that
vour occup^itious had been vastly dilT^r-ent!”
‘•iNo; what can you mean ?” :
“Have you forgotten a year a^’o at this .
time ?’* I
‘•y es, yes ; I believe so. But what of j
it ?”
“Well, it 80 happens that 1 had not
forgotten it. Scrubbing and cleaning week
was it not ?”
“Perhaps so. What made you remem­ber
it?”
‘•Why, 1 set it down in my memory as
the anhappiest week I had known since
our marriage. So, this yeftr, I resolved to
be out of the way while the ‘three days’
revolution* was taking place; bo 1 forced
myself off to New York.”
‘'Oh, William, had you told me ibis be­fore,
you need not have gone, and I should
have been spared some sad thoughts and
some sad tears—some, not many, mind
liight out of Darkness.
A BUND ma n ’s story.
1 had not been blind from my birth. Sit­ting
alone, in the utter darkness, my closed
eyes could make pictures. I could call back
glories of nature and glories of art, blue
sky, and wind-swept fields, and, above all,
dear faces, faces whose very memory light­ened
my night-time —my father, my gentle
mother, my young, dark eyed brother.
There was another, too, not of our blood,
whose face 1 saw oftener than any. This
was strange, for Le-ona Ashland, the daugh-er
of my mother’s most intimate friend,
was but a child of ten, six years younger
than myself. She was very dear to me,
however. Sbe had been in and out of our
house as familiail^^ as a daughter. She
was the pet of every one save me; but,
child as she was, my own feeling for her
was too tender and reveient to admit of gay
familiaritj'. 1 had never heard any one
Ciill her beautiful ; but to me her ftce al­ways
seemed that of an angel. I used to
tremble, lest, some day of summer, God
should giv^ her wings, and we should see
her no more forever, her feature?, fr imed
in those long b own curls, seemed so spirit­ual
so delicate ! When I looked into her
Her childish voice had deepened into a
thrilling energy as she recited the words of
in.cpiration. Then she turned to leave me;
but 1 detained her. Already she had com­forted
me.
How came Mr. Green to tell you to say
that to me ? 1 asked.
You are not vexed, Mr. Allen ?
No ; I am grateful. 1 only wished to
know how it happened.
He was at our house last night; and he
spoke of you. ^e pitied you very'much ;
but he said you had a great deal left in life
yet, if you would not be in despair. After
a while mother went out of the room ; and
I told him you had been very good to me.
and 1 wanted t'^ tell you something to make
you feel better. Then he said I might re­peat
that verse to you. Does it do you
good ? •
Much good blessed child ! Your words
have helped me more than you can ever
know.
She left me then. 1 did not strive to keep
her. 1 felt the neftd of solitude to receive
reverently the light, brighter than earthly
dawning, which was rising upon my spirit.
Her words had thrilled me, as if they had
dropped downward from some angel’s lips,
leaning over the far-off bastions of the ce-thoughtlul
eyes, at school or at church, life | lestial city. A great deal left for me j'et
seemed a holier, a more earnest thing. But | in life ! And, as 1 repeated those words,
the time citne when 1 coulii see them r:o j niy blessings seemed to rise up before me
longer, tor filteen years, the world had ' and reproach me For me, Agur’s pra3»er
been visible to me with its beautv, its mys- h .d been answered. 1 had neither poverty
nor riches; but a competence tery, its rcmance. Then dnrkness began was mine in
to steal gradually over me. It was a whole
jear before ihe last ray of light had faded.
I u’a-i thank- | and many
little vilh
you
•‘Ah! how is that ?”
*‘l have attended to uo bouse-cleaning
since you left.**
•indeed! Then the evil day is put off.”
‘‘Not so, I have no evil day. This
year 1 resolved to have no more house-cleaning
periods, but to put the house in
order in the most quiet way possible. Do­ing
a little of the all important house-clean­ing
every day until all was completed, in
order to save all this disagreeable bustle
and confusion. An hour or two, each
morning. I have given to it ; and it seems
as if it had gone off with the help of magic.
I like it so well that 1 think I ought to take
a patent for my new homceopathic treat­ment
of the annual disease—house-clean-
‘■Do so, best of wives, and it shall cure
me of my roving habits, of which I should
be glad to be free , for, if ever man had
cause to say, ‘There’s no place like home,’
it is your happy William.
C o m . P a u l d i n g . Paulding comes
h o n e s t ly by iiis akill in arresting unlawful
expeditions. His father was that celebra­ted
John Paulding, the Peek^kiil farmer,
who was one of the three captors of Major
Andre, Hiram was born in Westchester
County and ea:lv in life entered the Navy
whtre he has gradualy woiked his way up
through the grades of ]\!idshi}Hnan, Lieu­tenant,
Con.mnnder and Captain. He has
ever been one of the most efficient and val­ued
officers in ihe service ; and govern­ment
a short time since snowed its appre­ciation
of the fact by appointing him to the
command of the Home Squadron, which he
now holds.
VVe observe the Atlas intimates that the
Commodore ' exceeded bis instructions” in
so promptly capturing Walker. The same
complaint was made bv Arnold’s friend'
a g a in s t John Paulding.' N.-vertheless, his­tory
and public opinion justified the ons
and will j^istify the o\h^r.-■ Albany Journal
I was stone blind at sixteen,
ful th.it it was not a sudden stroke. Day
alter day, 1 had sou*-ht in vain for some
cheiiihed c:bjt'ct of vi-inn. Once it had
been the bli!e range of the far-oll hills;
again the faii.ili.ir out-line uf a distant
tree. After a time, the darkness caine
nearer. D ly after day, some tender.grace
would fade out from a beloved face ; and 1
could not reproduce it in my faiicy. At
length, 1 ste.med to dwell in a world of
shadows. Shapes, whose dim outline 1
could only faintly catch, floated by me ; but
still I could tell day from night; still heav­en’s
blessed light was welcome. But what
shall I say of the anguish of desolation
when the last ray was gone—when they told
me the mid day sun was shining clear and
bright, and I, alas ! sat in blindest, deepest
midnight— no light, no hope ?
I had so much to give up ! It was not
alone the joy of sight, the dear faces, the
beautiful world, but all my high hopes, my
plans for the future, my ambition my pride.
1 had meant to be a' student. I had had
visions of fame. There were months of
stormy, surging discontent bfeore I could
settle calmly down to my destiny. I se
eluded myself even from those dearest to
me on earth. The very sound of their
voices maddened me. for it made more in­tense
the longing to look upon their faces.
Day after day, I sat alone in my room,
where 1 had besought them not to come to
me. Sometimes my mother, who loved me
more than ever in my sorrow and my help­lessness.
would steal .into the room, and sit
for an hour beside me in silence. She was
so still, I could scarcely hear her breath«;
but 1 knew that at these times she wept
much. Once, in an irresistible impulse of
maternal tenderness, she folded her arms
around me and drew my head to her bosom
Oh, my child ! she cried, my dear child, be
comforted ! Believe that there is some­thing
left in life, or this blow will kill us
both.
But my rebellious spirit w’ould not strug­gle
with despair, even though 1 Celt that
it was breaking my mother’s heart.
Once and I think this did me more
good than anything—Leona came to me.
She had so long entreated »o see me that at
length my mother consented. She c&me in
alone. I knew her foot step as soon as it
crossed the threshold ; but 1 did not speak.
She came to my side. She Idid her hand
her little child’s hand, upon mine. [ knew
as well as if 1 had seen it, the sorrowful pity
with v*-hich her eyes were lif';ed to my face.
She .‘■eemed striving to gather self-command
j enoui^h to speak calmly. At len<:th. low
and quiet, yet earnest, her words fell upon
my ear ; Oh. Mr. .\llen, the rector says
God knows just what is best for every one!
He is our Father ; and he does not love to
make us sorry. This is the passage Mr-
Green told me to say to you : Like as a
father pitiet i his children, so the Lord pit-iefh
them that feer him.
my own right, which would secure me
against \'aiit. 1 had health and strength
friends. The paths about our
e were all fimiliar to me. I could
traverse them without a guide ; 1 could feel
the free winds svieep my brow; 1 could
enhale tl;e sxeet breath of the flowers ; 1
could hear the beloved voices of home.
Verily, God hath not forsaken me. 1 had
been wilfully shutting his mercies out of
my heart. 1 knelt now, and thanked him
for what had been left—prayed him to
teach me to bear patiently the loss of what
had been taken.
When the bell rang for supper. 1 arose,
and went quietly down stairs. Tiiey gave
no noisy greeting to the son who had not
sat beside them there since the spring flow­ers
had blossomed, though now the summer
lay green and luxuriant upon hill iMd wood­land,
But 1 understood my father’s wel-come~
the unaltered tenderness which deep­ened
my mother's voice—the eager grasp
in which my brother Richard held my hand.
1 found my plate and my chair in their old
place. After that, 1 never secluded myself
from them agtin.
When supper was over, 1 went out to go
to evening prayers at the church. 1 had
not thought 1 could ever go there again, 1
had dwelt morbidly on the curiosity with
which the congregation would look at me
1 never thought of that now, God bad open­ed
the eyes of my spirit. 1 went thert; to
thank him for this great mercy. 1 had
never before been so thrilled with the
church music. Hearing seemed to me like
a new sense. Through it 1 drank in deep
draughts of pleasure. 1 had sat in the choir j
It was my business, for which a small sala­ry
was paid me. This was all 1 was, all 1
ever could be; but 1 was content.
My brother was in college. He was tak­ing
my place, he would realii£e my early
dreams. The world called him a brilliant
young man. At home, there was little
change, save that Leona’s light footfall less
often crossed our threshold. For some year&
she had been at school in Boston. In the
vacations, she came home ; and then I could
tell by her voice that she was good and in
nocent as ever. The next spring—it was
winter now—her schooldays would be over.
At Ust the time came. Oh, how joyfully
1 welcomed her though 1 scarcely knew
why her presence seemed so infinitely pre­cious!
We wandered together into the
fields, and she told me how fresh and green
the grass was springing under foot—how
blue and bright was the May time sky. 1
could smell the bloom of the fruit-trees,
which were dropping their fragrant blos­soms
in our path. She never wearied of
making all things visible to me. She would
tell me how the mist was lying white and
purple in the valley—how the far, hazy hills
were sleeping in the sunshine ; and seeing
with her eyes, 1 scarcely realized that 1
Was blind.
But this dream also had an awakening.
My brother Richard came home. He had
finished his course at the universaty with
highhonor,^; and his advent in Rvefield
was tlie signal for a series of parties, and
picnics, and merry-makings, in which 1 :
could not j in, and which took Leona from j
my side. 1 heard from a'l quarters the j
1 praises of my handsome, manly brother.!
( He was only nineteen now, but he was six |
I feet tall, and they said, looked much older. |
j 1 ivas not i^urprised to hear that his wic and !
1I,ll:s, manly graces„ were maIl ii• ng s idI Il iavoc I now the fever fit of ins^piration was
with the hearts of the v llage girls- Al-
I ready over my soul began to st6il a pre­sentiment
ofsorrow.
1 think my brother loved me very much.
He always made me his confident. One
night he came to my room, and said, with
a hesitation which seemed very singular in
his frank, fearless nattire, that he bad some,
thing to tell me. Then he talked of indif­ferent
subjects for a while, and at length,
suddenly—alas, it seemed to me pitilessly—
the blow fell. He loved Leona Ashland |
Oh, Heaven pity me! God have mercy on
me ! i knew in that moment that 1 too
loved her. 1, blind, helpless fool that 1 was!
bad made her my idol. I had not known
before what was the spell which bound me
to her, or rather, 1 had resolutely closed
my heart against the convietiott. The veil
was ruthlessly rent away. 1 could not
choose but look on my own stupid imbecil­ity
A voice in my soul mocked me. It
cried. You, you cowardly idiot! You
thought that young girl could love you,
that girl radiant with youth and hope', all
the glory and brightness of life, before
whose feet the future stretches out, green,
and fresh, and smiling! You thought you
could win her! Selfish! insensate ! mad !
1 bade the voice cease its upbrading. 1
shut my ears against it; 1 ordered my
and when prayers were over I entreated brother from the room. For the first time
the organist to play for me again. Soon ‘"y ^
we became fast friends. 1 think that my
enthusiasm pleased him, for twilight after
twilight found us alone in the church, with
only the little boy who blew the bellows —
John Cunningham playing, and 1 listening
and dreaming.
But soon 1 felt—I think an intuitive
sense of power revealed to me—that the
organist was no artist. Sometimes 1 long­ed
to sweep him off the stool, and interpret
with my fingers the music that was in my
soul. This idea that 1 could be a musician
dawned upon me slowly ; but day by day
the sense of power stiengthened.
At length, I asked him to let me try. 1
think he was astonished. My soul was
flooded with harmony. Wild, sxveet strains
came to me like the whispers of angele.
From that night, 1 was the master and he
my pupil. Sometimes I would persuade
mv broilier to go with me to the church;
and then, hour afier hour, the organ would
indeed be the voice of my soul. 1 breathed
out iii'uiusic all the dreams of my long
dreaming boyhood before the one stern
stroke had coins under which I bowed my
head, pnd rose up a man. God was very
merciful. With thi^ resource, 1 could nev­er
be entirely lonely, wholly desolate.
When 1 was twenty one, John Cunning­ham
had left Kyefield; and 1 had b e e n ' world, lonely and grief stricken,
chosen the organist of our village church. ® man.
He had a generous temper. 1 do not thiuk
he blamed me. He reproached himself,
rather, for speaking to me of a love from
which my misfortune had shut me out for­ever.
Begging me to forgive him he went
out.1
shut the door behind him. 1 locked
it. The key turned with a sharp click.
Then 1 threw myself down upon the floor
as a traveler might prostrate himself before
the poison-wind of the desert. Lying there
this fierce, scorching sinioon swept over
me. Unknown to myself. 1 had been cher­ishing
one swser flower in my heart, water­ing
it, day and night, with the dew of hope.
It lay theie now, torn up by the roots, its
buds blighted, its fair blossoms withered. t? ^ Blind, helpless idiot! So the voice in
my heart had called me. Ay! but the blind
idiot could love. Who else could pour such
wealth of tenderness on one who would
never grow old to his sightless eyes, whose
brow always be smoth — whose hair would
never lose its brightness — whose eye would
never grow dim, because forever he could
clothe her with the fliir garment of his fan­cy
? And a new voice in my heart ansvver-ed
: 1 am worthy, for 1 love.
With those words, strength came to me ;
and 1 rose up. and stood erect in my dark
but
1 was not one to inflict my sorrow upon
others. 1 strove to go out into the world
with a cheerful face. But 1 listened with
tremulous eagerness to every inflection of
Leona’s voice when sbe talked with my
brother. 1 knew she must Jove him, but
there was a curious facination in watching
how this passion would spring up in her
pure heart—how the tenderness, which
could never be for me, would grow into her
beloved voice. Day after day, it seemed
to me to become full of a sweeter pathos
Richard was constantly by her .<)ide. Often
they roamed together over the fields.
Sometimes they asked me to go with them
but 1 was too sensitive to intrude. 1 al- % ways refused, Once or twice, when 1 had
declined going, Leona insisted on remain­ing
with me. Then she would be socruel-ly
kind to me, read to me talk to me, be­wilder
me with torturing glimpses of an
impossible happiness. Then Richard would
come back with a floral offering.—a spray
of honeysuckle, or a bunch of wild r^ses ,
and, sitting beside her afterwards. 1 smelt
all day the fragrance of his flowers upon
her bosom.
One night; she asked me if she might go
alone with me to evening prayers, as she
used before Rictiard came. It was a pleas
ant walk, that half mile between nur house
and the church, in the summer sunset, ^vith
the trees over our heads all odorous with
bloom. Tnere was a curious joy, which
was more than half compounded of pain, in
knowins: that she was by my side, in feel
ing the light pressure of her hand upon my
ana. When the services were over, she asked
me to stay a little longer, and play fi>t her
as 1 had often done before. Hitherto as
such times, she had chosen the tunes; but
upon
me. 1 poured forth the story of my hope­less
love. 1 used no words ; but the mu­sic
explained itself. It thrilled, it trembled
it pleaded it despaired, it struggled, it hoped
then, a* if for the dead, it wailed, and died
out, at last, in a long, helpless cry ot sor­row.
1 heard Leona sobbih’g. She s'tood
at a little distance, alone iu the darkness.
1 left my seat- 1 went to her. and took
her hands. In the darkness, she laid b‘6r
tender, pitying arms around my neck.
1 felt her wet cheek against my oi^h. Alas
1 knew the language of that silent caress.
She loved Richard! but, with all the full­ness
cf her angelic natilre. she p?tied i\ae
She would be my sister.
No word was spoken by either of us
We went out of the church, and went bfoiiae
under the night and the trees.
Soon after this. Richard was obliged to
leave us for two or three weeks, on sotn'e
business for my father. 1 did not know
wbefher he had declareed his lovi previous
to his departure, 1 watched Le'ona.a voice
jealously for signs of sorrow; but it was
clear and full of music as ever. Indeed. 1
thotrght It more joyous than was its vi^oht.
1 said to^myself: How certain she must be
of his love, to bear his absence so camly!
The joy of knowing that he is her own for­ever
makes her insensible to sorrow.
Oh ] how kind she was to me those two
weeks ! It was almost like the old days
before Richard came, save that a barbed
arrow was rankling in my beaft. The un­conscious
hope 1 bad cherished in those
other days could never come back again.
At last, the time came for Richard’s re­turn.
Lec.na was with us. Frankly, as
one who has nothing to conceal, she talked
of the pleasure there would be in having
him back again. At noon he came. With
eager step he entered the room ; but his
voice trembled when he spoke to Leonr.
1 could only tell by that token how his
heart thrilled to be once more by her side
She was not demonstrative. The voice
with which she replied to his greeting was
very quiet, but 1 had never known Rich­ard’s
manner so eager, so restless, as tha*'
afternoon.
In the evening we three were alone in
the long parlor. 1 sat at one end among
the shadows. Richard and Leona were at
the other, where thes moon—for 1 heard
them talking of it—shone in at the open
window. Perhaps Richard thought 1 could
not liear or that 1 slept. He did not know
what a second sight hearing is to the
blind. Not a murmur, not a quiver of their
voices escaped me. It seems that he had
never told her of his love before. He poured
it forth now with passionate fervid el.)
quence. 1 listened breathle.'-sly for her ans
wer;l held tight to the chair where 1 war
sitting ; J commanded every nerve to do
its d u ty ; 1 hade m y Self to n t rb i ib Ke
i lant at i ts p o s t ; i could b e a r the torture’
wi thout a moan ; I waited to h e a r her lo#
words df love. Her voice fell on my ear.
Hu sh , rebel l ious hear t! thou h ads t no bilsi*
ness to th ro b So wi ldly.
1 cannot, she says; oh, 1 cannot! f
thought you knew—1 thought you mast
have known—And here the tender, troubled
voice breaks tip into pitifdl sobs ai sHe t)e‘-
seeches liim to leave her, only to leave her.
Richard makes no attempt to comfort hefi
1 hear him go odt. Then 1 cross the room,
1 kneel at her feet, 1 tell her 1 have heard
all. and then a mad impulse seizes me; 1
pour out at her feet the libation of my lev*.
1 cannot help it. Blind and poor, and
helpless as 1 was, 1 had dared to love her.
1 did not mean tu tell her. 1: knew
could never return it. But, when 1 had
heard her grieve, 1 had longed so to com-*
fort her, 1 had wanted ber to' kn'ow bo#
*gladly 1 would die to give her peace.
Oh! how can 1 tell the story? She drti
not spurn me. Once more, in the c^arkneM;
her tender arms were laid about my neck.
For the first time, I felt upon my nfouth'
the kisses of her fresh, pure lips. Her word^
were solemn and earnest: Do not die for
me. Live I live, dear Allen! and if yoif
love me, let me be your wif4:
When our betrothal was made known;
there was a sfruggle in my brother’s heart.'
He loved me, he strove to rejoice in m'y
happiness ; but he could' not s'ta^ to witness'
it. 1 who ki;ew Leona’s worth, did not
blame him. He !■ ft home, the next weekj’
for a year of foreign traVel; and, threa
weeks after. Leona became my wife.
Our weeding was a very s-i’m pie one. W«
chose to be married in the old church at
twilight, for, to us. that had been the b!es-sed
hour of d^stfny. When tlie ceremony
was uVer, and the witnesses had depa'ifi^^
we walked slowly homewai‘d lifndel' th^ trees
Leuna told me the nioon was flo..d>ng alf
things wi^h s ilh ii a silver rain of peHce ; sad
# s fe?t t£^t ?t Would bd tb i embtaM of
future.
My wife insisie^ on a sliort bridal toiiii
She must take h'er blind husband to Boston.'
1 was a Ktt.^d sefi'sifive alVoAt e;fposrn^ rtif
misfortune to strangers. This s'tep sMiiaiedf
unlike Leona ; but t iV&lied to jkFeas# ber/
and 1' co]j|S'ented.
The next m'orning after ou^ arrival. wS
sat alond i^ ot^r room’ at the ^inth'rufi
House. 1 wanted to talk to' Hif wiffe. buf£
she could scai’Cel'y listen. Sbe fluttered
around the apartmeA't, ai'ranrged and dFs^ai^-
ranged thd f6rniture a d'o2!l§n timls. i hid
never known' her so restless'. Every uo#
and then, she would drop down foi- a mrf-meht
upoA my knee, and lifting up my
face, woufd coV'er ft #rth' l?5sse8'7 bti(t eVciif
there she wouFd not s1t stil^.
At lengtly there came a tap upon the doo#
attd s'&e spi ang hurriedly to open ft. Tb^i*^
where a few whispferdd ^or S wiib t^e neW
comer and then Leona said grsvely : My
love, this is Dr. Williams. 1 have beard
much of his skill; and brought yoi^ &erer
because i longed, for tnf own satiisfactiotf,
to have him examine your eyes. I did
nc>t wish to mention it at hiihe. for tber^
was' no use in making ah'y bhd' else a Sba/ei^
of my suspense.
Doctor William’s voice was very kind/
1 liked that. He proceeded gently #it&
his examination. For five moments 1 Was
in an agony of hope. In fancy 1 saw ai;ainf
earth and sk>. and dearei still, the sweet
face of my bride. Leona hvld my h^nd
tightly.
At length Ihe doctor’s verdict came, i
know be pJtied uS, tvfro poor young^ things
looking to Him to crush or confirm a hope
as precious as life. His voice treuibled. He
said in low, earnest tone : God Suft(in'it to
you ! There is no hope !
He went out of the I'oohi. Lfebna closed?
the door tfter him. and then came back an(F
threw herself into my arms. 1 coUld feeF
her heart throbbing" fiiinultuiiu^lV ?*gaihs^
my side. But sH'e commandad hers«^lf. and*
strove to comfort me. My poor. ) di>r dar­ling!
she said, teiiderly, can yoii for'.'ii’e me^
for disturbirig you with this m rti trial ? 1‘
did so long to know the worst! 1 could
not help hopiiig before. Now, we shall be
at rest. It will riof Bs like a doubtful sor­row.
And you, Leona, can von in'^epd pop-
'ent to share a b!:itd m iK’s d rl<- ■<*-
She s1o|>ped tin non e . « •'
Hush. belo\ed! 1 " -
your eyes. [see uexi J

m n t c
Volume 2—Number 34 FALLS VILLAGE, CONN*, SATURDAY AUGUST 21, 1858. One Dollar Per Yearj Ih Advance,
THE WIPE’S EXPERIMENT.
BY ADA N E I L .
CONCLUDED.
*‘0h, this hemstitcking is getting tire-
6 ome! 1 would not make mamius a present
that has cost me any unpleasant hour. I’ll
lay it aside for a time. I’ll draw a little
while. No, I’ll look at those songs.
Yes; at this one.” And, seating herself
at the piano, she opened Mendelssohn’s
beautiful little song “Far Away.
“ 0 far away I ’ll fly ia dreaming,
Where tliou art now ;
Where everlasting snows are gleaming,
And foaming brooks go lakcward streaming,
Where thou ar t now.
Afid still my soul pursues its dreaming
Till thou return.
Time shall not move me to complaining
Our hearts unaltered aye remaining.
Till thou return.”
Charmed by the influenced of the words
and th# music, Mrs. Stanley leaned her el­bow
UDon the music desk and fell to think­ing.
She was aroused by a ^uch upon
her shoulder and a kiss upon her forehead.
‘‘Oh, William! is that you? How'
YOU fiightened me ! I did not expect you I
so soon.” I
“Ali! then it was not me whose return i
you were waiting? lley, my dear2” i
Mrs. Stanley blushed, birt* her hippy i
face told the truth — ‘ whose return should
ehe be waiting for?” i
••Yes, yes; but I have not been among
‘everlasting snows’ and-foainiiii brooks.’
•‘^Well, ue'l. h^ve it as yfu please ; only
I am so glad that your are haie. Hut hovv
did you f>tt in without iny knowing it ? ’ ;
‘•Oh, 'out of sight, out of mind,’ you
know.”
-‘Cruel m^n, you know nothing about
it. Look aroui.d the room and see how
hnrd 1 have tried to keep busy and not to
grow l.inesome.
‘•Drawing, embroidery, sewincr. reading. ;
music! D j you know that I i’ancied that
vour occup^itious had been vastly dilT^r-ent!”
‘•iNo; what can you mean ?” :
“Have you forgotten a year a^’o at this .
time ?’* I
‘•y es, yes ; I believe so. But what of j
it ?”
“Well, it 80 happens that 1 had not
forgotten it. Scrubbing and cleaning week
was it not ?”
“Perhaps so. What made you remem­ber
it?”
‘•Why, 1 set it down in my memory as
the anhappiest week I had known since
our marriage. So, this yeftr, I resolved to
be out of the way while the ‘three days’
revolution* was taking place; bo 1 forced
myself off to New York.”
‘'Oh, William, had you told me ibis be­fore,
you need not have gone, and I should
have been spared some sad thoughts and
some sad tears—some, not many, mind
liight out of Darkness.
A BUND ma n ’s story.
1 had not been blind from my birth. Sit­ting
alone, in the utter darkness, my closed
eyes could make pictures. I could call back
glories of nature and glories of art, blue
sky, and wind-swept fields, and, above all,
dear faces, faces whose very memory light­ened
my night-time —my father, my gentle
mother, my young, dark eyed brother.
There was another, too, not of our blood,
whose face 1 saw oftener than any. This
was strange, for Le-ona Ashland, the daugh-er
of my mother’s most intimate friend,
was but a child of ten, six years younger
than myself. She was very dear to me,
however. Sbe had been in and out of our
house as familiail^^ as a daughter. She
was the pet of every one save me; but,
child as she was, my own feeling for her
was too tender and reveient to admit of gay
familiaritj'. 1 had never heard any one
Ciill her beautiful ; but to me her ftce al­ways
seemed that of an angel. I used to
tremble, lest, some day of summer, God
should giv^ her wings, and we should see
her no more forever, her feature?, fr imed
in those long b own curls, seemed so spirit­ual
so delicate ! When I looked into her
Her childish voice had deepened into a
thrilling energy as she recited the words of
in.cpiration. Then she turned to leave me;
but 1 detained her. Already she had com­forted
me.
How came Mr. Green to tell you to say
that to me ? 1 asked.
You are not vexed, Mr. Allen ?
No ; I am grateful. 1 only wished to
know how it happened.
He was at our house last night; and he
spoke of you. ^e pitied you very'much ;
but he said you had a great deal left in life
yet, if you would not be in despair. After
a while mother went out of the room ; and
I told him you had been very good to me.
and 1 wanted t'^ tell you something to make
you feel better. Then he said I might re­peat
that verse to you. Does it do you
good ? •
Much good blessed child ! Your words
have helped me more than you can ever
know.
She left me then. 1 did not strive to keep
her. 1 felt the neftd of solitude to receive
reverently the light, brighter than earthly
dawning, which was rising upon my spirit.
Her words had thrilled me, as if they had
dropped downward from some angel’s lips,
leaning over the far-off bastions of the ce-thoughtlul
eyes, at school or at church, life | lestial city. A great deal left for me j'et
seemed a holier, a more earnest thing. But | in life ! And, as 1 repeated those words,
the time citne when 1 coulii see them r:o j niy blessings seemed to rise up before me
longer, tor filteen years, the world had ' and reproach me For me, Agur’s pra3»er
been visible to me with its beautv, its mys- h .d been answered. 1 had neither poverty
nor riches; but a competence tery, its rcmance. Then dnrkness began was mine in
to steal gradually over me. It was a whole
jear before ihe last ray of light had faded.
I u’a-i thank- | and many
little vilh
you
•‘Ah! how is that ?”
*‘l have attended to uo bouse-cleaning
since you left.**
•indeed! Then the evil day is put off.”
‘‘Not so, I have no evil day. This
year 1 resolved to have no more house-cleaning
periods, but to put the house in
order in the most quiet way possible. Do­ing
a little of the all important house-clean­ing
every day until all was completed, in
order to save all this disagreeable bustle
and confusion. An hour or two, each
morning. I have given to it ; and it seems
as if it had gone off with the help of magic.
I like it so well that 1 think I ought to take
a patent for my new homceopathic treat­ment
of the annual disease—house-clean-
‘■Do so, best of wives, and it shall cure
me of my roving habits, of which I should
be glad to be free , for, if ever man had
cause to say, ‘There’s no place like home,’
it is your happy William.
C o m . P a u l d i n g . Paulding comes
h o n e s t ly by iiis akill in arresting unlawful
expeditions. His father was that celebra­ted
John Paulding, the Peek^kiil farmer,
who was one of the three captors of Major
Andre, Hiram was born in Westchester
County and ea:lv in life entered the Navy
whtre he has gradualy woiked his way up
through the grades of ]\!idshi}Hnan, Lieu­tenant,
Con.mnnder and Captain. He has
ever been one of the most efficient and val­ued
officers in ihe service ; and govern­ment
a short time since snowed its appre­ciation
of the fact by appointing him to the
command of the Home Squadron, which he
now holds.
VVe observe the Atlas intimates that the
Commodore ' exceeded bis instructions” in
so promptly capturing Walker. The same
complaint was made bv Arnold’s friend'
a g a in s t John Paulding.' N.-vertheless, his­tory
and public opinion justified the ons
and will j^istify the o\h^r.-■ Albany Journal
I was stone blind at sixteen,
ful th.it it was not a sudden stroke. Day
alter day, 1 had sou*-ht in vain for some
cheiiihed c:bjt'ct of vi-inn. Once it had
been the bli!e range of the far-oll hills;
again the faii.ili.ir out-line uf a distant
tree. After a time, the darkness caine
nearer. D ly after day, some tender.grace
would fade out from a beloved face ; and 1
could not reproduce it in my faiicy. At
length, 1 ste.med to dwell in a world of
shadows. Shapes, whose dim outline 1
could only faintly catch, floated by me ; but
still I could tell day from night; still heav­en’s
blessed light was welcome. But what
shall I say of the anguish of desolation
when the last ray was gone—when they told
me the mid day sun was shining clear and
bright, and I, alas ! sat in blindest, deepest
midnight— no light, no hope ?
I had so much to give up ! It was not
alone the joy of sight, the dear faces, the
beautiful world, but all my high hopes, my
plans for the future, my ambition my pride.
1 had meant to be a' student. I had had
visions of fame. There were months of
stormy, surging discontent bfeore I could
settle calmly down to my destiny. I se
eluded myself even from those dearest to
me on earth. The very sound of their
voices maddened me. for it made more in­tense
the longing to look upon their faces.
Day after day, I sat alone in my room,
where 1 had besought them not to come to
me. Sometimes my mother, who loved me
more than ever in my sorrow and my help­lessness.
would steal .into the room, and sit
for an hour beside me in silence. She was
so still, I could scarcely hear her breath«;
but 1 knew that at these times she wept
much. Once, in an irresistible impulse of
maternal tenderness, she folded her arms
around me and drew my head to her bosom
Oh, my child ! she cried, my dear child, be
comforted ! Believe that there is some­thing
left in life, or this blow will kill us
both.
But my rebellious spirit w’ould not strug­gle
with despair, even though 1 Celt that
it was breaking my mother’s heart.
Once and I think this did me more
good than anything—Leona came to me.
She had so long entreated »o see me that at
length my mother consented. She c&me in
alone. I knew her foot step as soon as it
crossed the threshold ; but 1 did not speak.
She came to my side. She Idid her hand
her little child’s hand, upon mine. [ knew
as well as if 1 had seen it, the sorrowful pity
with v*-hich her eyes were lif';ed to my face.
She .‘■eemed striving to gather self-command
j enoui^h to speak calmly. At lent her
as 1 had often done before. Hitherto as
such times, she had chosen the tunes; but
upon
me. 1 poured forth the story of my hope­less
love. 1 used no words ; but the mu­sic
explained itself. It thrilled, it trembled
it pleaded it despaired, it struggled, it hoped
then, a* if for the dead, it wailed, and died
out, at last, in a long, helpless cry ot sor­row.
1 heard Leona sobbih’g. She s'tood
at a little distance, alone iu the darkness.
1 left my seat- 1 went to her. and took
her hands. In the darkness, she laid b‘6r
tender, pitying arms around my neck.
1 felt her wet cheek against my oi^h. Alas
1 knew the language of that silent caress.
She loved Richard! but, with all the full­ness
cf her angelic natilre. she p?tied i\ae
She would be my sister.
No word was spoken by either of us
We went out of the church, and went bfoiiae
under the night and the trees.
Soon after this. Richard was obliged to
leave us for two or three weeks, on sotn'e
business for my father. 1 did not know
wbefher he had declareed his lovi previous
to his departure, 1 watched Le'ona.a voice
jealously for signs of sorrow; but it was
clear and full of music as ever. Indeed. 1
thotrght It more joyous than was its vi^oht.
1 said to^myself: How certain she must be
of his love, to bear his absence so camly!
The joy of knowing that he is her own for­ever
makes her insensible to sorrow.
Oh ] how kind she was to me those two
weeks ! It was almost like the old days
before Richard came, save that a barbed
arrow was rankling in my beaft. The un­conscious
hope 1 bad cherished in those
other days could never come back again.
At last, the time came for Richard’s re­turn.
Lec.na was with us. Frankly, as
one who has nothing to conceal, she talked
of the pleasure there would be in having
him back again. At noon he came. With
eager step he entered the room ; but his
voice trembled when he spoke to Leonr.
1 could only tell by that token how his
heart thrilled to be once more by her side
She was not demonstrative. The voice
with which she replied to his greeting was
very quiet, but 1 had never known Rich­ard’s
manner so eager, so restless, as tha*'
afternoon.
In the evening we three were alone in
the long parlor. 1 sat at one end among
the shadows. Richard and Leona were at
the other, where thes moon—for 1 heard
them talking of it—shone in at the open
window. Perhaps Richard thought 1 could
not liear or that 1 slept. He did not know
what a second sight hearing is to the
blind. Not a murmur, not a quiver of their
voices escaped me. It seems that he had
never told her of his love before. He poured
it forth now with passionate fervid el.)
quence. 1 listened breathle.'-sly for her ans
wer;l held tight to the chair where 1 war
sitting ; J commanded every nerve to do
its d u ty ; 1 hade m y Self to n t rb i ib Ke
i lant at i ts p o s t ; i could b e a r the torture’
wi thout a moan ; I waited to h e a r her lo#
words df love. Her voice fell on my ear.
Hu sh , rebel l ious hear t! thou h ads t no bilsi*
ness to th ro b So wi ldly.
1 cannot, she says; oh, 1 cannot! f
thought you knew—1 thought you mast
have known—And here the tender, troubled
voice breaks tip into pitifdl sobs ai sHe t)e‘-
seeches liim to leave her, only to leave her.
Richard makes no attempt to comfort hefi
1 hear him go odt. Then 1 cross the room,
1 kneel at her feet, 1 tell her 1 have heard
all. and then a mad impulse seizes me; 1
pour out at her feet the libation of my lev*.
1 cannot help it. Blind and poor, and
helpless as 1 was, 1 had dared to love her.
1 did not mean tu tell her. 1: knew
could never return it. But, when 1 had
heard her grieve, 1 had longed so to com-*
fort her, 1 had wanted ber to' kn'ow bo#
*gladly 1 would die to give her peace.
Oh! how can 1 tell the story? She drti
not spurn me. Once more, in the c^arkneM;
her tender arms were laid about my neck.
For the first time, I felt upon my nfouth'
the kisses of her fresh, pure lips. Her word^
were solemn and earnest: Do not die for
me. Live I live, dear Allen! and if yoif
love me, let me be your wif4:
When our betrothal was made known;
there was a sfruggle in my brother’s heart.'
He loved me, he strove to rejoice in m'y
happiness ; but he could' not s'ta^ to witness'
it. 1 who ki;ew Leona’s worth, did not
blame him. He !■ ft home, the next weekj’
for a year of foreign traVel; and, threa
weeks after. Leona became my wife.
Our weeding was a very s-i’m pie one. W«
chose to be married in the old church at
twilight, for, to us. that had been the b!es-sed
hour of d^stfny. When tlie ceremony
was uVer, and the witnesses had depa'ifi^^
we walked slowly homewai‘d lifndel' th^ trees
Leuna told me the nioon was flo..d>ng alf
things wi^h s ilh ii a silver rain of peHce ; sad
# s fe?t t£^t ?t Would bd tb i embtaM of
future.
My wife insisie^ on a sliort bridal toiiii
She must take h'er blind husband to Boston.'
1 was a Ktt.^d sefi'sifive alVoAt e;fposrn^ rtif
misfortune to strangers. This s'tep sMiiaiedf
unlike Leona ; but t iV&lied to jkFeas# ber/
and 1' co]j|S'ented.
The next m'orning after ou^ arrival. wS
sat alond i^ ot^r room’ at the ^inth'rufi
House. 1 wanted to talk to' Hif wiffe. buf£
she could scai’Cel'y listen. Sbe fluttered
around the apartmeA't, ai'ranrged and dFs^ai^-
ranged thd f6rniture a d'o2!l§n timls. i hid
never known' her so restless'. Every uo#
and then, she would drop down foi- a mrf-meht
upoA my knee, and lifting up my
face, woufd coV'er ft #rth' l?5sse8'7 bti(t eVciif
there she wouFd not s1t stil^.
At lengtly there came a tap upon the doo#
attd s'&e spi ang hurriedly to open ft. Tb^i*^
where a few whispferdd ^or S wiib t^e neW
comer and then Leona said grsvely : My
love, this is Dr. Williams. 1 have beard
much of his skill; and brought yoi^ &erer
because i longed, for tnf own satiisfactiotf,
to have him examine your eyes. I did
nc>t wish to mention it at hiihe. for tber^
was' no use in making ah'y bhd' else a Sba/ei^
of my suspense.
Doctor William’s voice was very kind/
1 liked that. He proceeded gently #it&
his examination. For five moments 1 Was
in an agony of hope. In fancy 1 saw ai;ainf
earth and sk>. and dearei still, the sweet
face of my bride. Leona hvld my h^nd
tightly.
At length Ihe doctor’s verdict came, i
know be pJtied uS, tvfro poor young^ things
looking to Him to crush or confirm a hope
as precious as life. His voice treuibled. He
said in low, earnest tone : God Suft(in'it to
you ! There is no hope !
He went out of the I'oohi. Lfebna closed?
the door tfter him. and then came back an(F
threw herself into my arms. 1 coUld feeF
her heart throbbing" fiiinultuiiu^lV ?*gaihs^
my side. But sH'e commandad hers«^lf. and*
strove to comfort me. My poor. ) di>r dar­ling!
she said, teiiderly, can yoii for'.'ii’e me^
for disturbirig you with this m rti trial ? 1‘
did so long to know the worst! 1 could
not help hopiiig before. Now, we shall be
at rest. It will riof Bs like a doubtful sor­row.
And you, Leona, can von in'^epd pop-
'ent to share a b!:itd m iK’s d rlped tin non e . « •'
Hush. belo\ed! 1 " -
your eyes. [see uexi J